


Drunk

by TheSigyn



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alcohol, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 18:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4148169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSigyn/pseuds/TheSigyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I played a stupid game with you last night," Buffy said. "I know I did. And I want to know why you didn’t try to do... what I think you probably could have done with me.” Buffy speaks to Spike after her drunken evening in the episode Life Serial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk

  
  
    “I love it, you know!” Buffy slurred. “Makes you feel all powerful... strong... kinda sick....” She wobbled and staggered. Spike reached out to help her, and she slapped him away. In the act of trying to hit him she lost her balance completely and spilled ungracefully to the pavement.

    Spike knelt down and scooped her up, setting her carefully on her feet, but not letting her go until he was sure she was balanced. He put his arm around her shoulder, and her head sagged against his chest. “I think... I’m gonna be sick,” she said.

    “Just don’t get the coat, love,” he said. “Come on.” He led her back toward his motorcycle, but she groaned, and pulled away to the side of the alley. As she knelt and retched, he pulled a cloth out of his pocket, and then squatted beside her, pulling stray hairs away from her face. His cool hand on the base of her neck felt deeply refreshing. When she started to feel a bit better, she sagged away from the pool of vomit, attempted to stand, and then fell backwards to the ground. Spike caught her shoulders before she fell down completely. Her head lolled against him, and he took the handkerchief and wiped her mouth. “Here,” he said gently. “Blow your nose.”

    She complied like a little girl, ridding herself of most of the smell of alcohol induced sickness.

    “Feel any better?” he asked when she had finished.

    God, sometimes she loved his accent. How he actually annunciated the ‘t’, rather than turning it into a swallowed ‘d’ like an American. She was snuggled into his arm like a lover, and every muscle felt like soft rubber. She didn’t want to move her body at all. “I feel far away,” she murmured.

    “I meant do you still feel sick, love, but that works too,” he said. “You think you can stand?”

    “No.”

    He chuckled. He brushed another loose tendril from her face, clammy with sweat, and his fingers traced down her throat. They both realized his nearness at the same time. Buffy’s breath caught as the feel of his cool fingertips sliced through the fog of her body like a hot blade. His ice blue eyes gazed into her as his hand slid lower, down her collar, to rest on her collar bone just under the neckline of her shirt. “Are you taking advantage of my inebrdided state?” she asked.

    “Yes,” he said with a wicked smile.

    “That’s very evil of you,” she muttered.

    He chuckled again, and bent a little to whisper in her ear. “Well, I try, pet.”

    The heady weight of his breath made her shiver. She could feel his lips – not kissing her, but barely brushing her skin, the gentle touch of his nose as he bent his head to her throat. There was the briefest of moments as he opened his mouth and just barely touched her throat with his un-fanged upper teeth. Then he pulled away and looked at her. “You going to stop me, slayer?”

    She was ashamed of the way her eyes fluttered and she melted a bit more in his arms. She made a weak, and highly inefficient push, the merest hint of struggling away from him, and failed utterly. The sound she made was more an aroused hum than an irritated grunt. A second later he was leaning over her again, his face mere centimeters away from hers, looking more amused than anything else. He hovered by her, breathing in her scent, feeling the heat of her skin against his face. For long, almost terrified moments she thought he was about to steal a kiss – and he did. His lips connected with her pale cheek in the most chaste of brushes. She felt, to her horror, disappointed. “Let’s get you home, love,” he murmured, his voice caressing the words. A moment later she felt herself lifted.

    She never did black out, but there were long moments when she was past all speech or movement as he mounted his motorcycle, propping her sideways before him like the swooning maiden in a romantic ballad. A moment later the machine revved awake, and he took off with her. She didn’t know where he was taking her. If he chose to take her to his lair, she was in no state to resist him properly. The most cohesive part of her inebriated mind told her to fight him, struggle away, scream for help. She had let herself get far too drunk, and put herself into the power of an amoral vampire whom she knew full well wanted her body. Another part, drunken and submissive, was saying how nice it felt to just lie there in his arms, the hum of the machine vibrating through her. She didn’t have to make decisions, didn’t have to argue, didn’t have to move.

    Finally she let her head sink against his chest, and just breathed in the scent of him, whiskey and cigarette smoke, the clean smell of earth, and that oddly seductive scent all vampires acquired, which she thought had something to do with their breath, or their skin. He smelled _really_ great. Part of her was conserving her strength to try and fight off whatever it was he planned on doing with her. The other part was just there, complete in the drunken moment, past enjoyment or fear of him. Just part of him, of the bike, of the night, of the wind in her face. It was the best she had felt in a long, long while. She sank into it, letting it become timeless.

    After an unseen journey of noise and night air, the machine quietly died, and his arms shifted beneath her as he kicked up the stand without dismounting first. For a long, long time, it seemed, he just sat there, Buffy cradled in his arms. She blinked up at him, and found him staring at her. She couldn’t read his expression in the dark, but she could see his eyes searched her face. She swallowed nervously, afraid of what he meant to do next. For a long moment, she again thought he was about to kiss her.

    She wondered if she’d even try to stop him.

    Finally, he sighed. It seemed more content than anything else. Then he stood, still carrying her in his arms. She was all prepared to struggle herself back into some kind of fighting stance. A moment later a shock of light made her cringe, and Spike shouldered a door open.

    “My word. What’s happened to her?” Giles’s crisp voice surprised her.

    “She’s just drunk,” Spike said. He tilted and poured her into her front hallway, setting her onto her feet and holding her upright until she decided to straighten her legs and support her own weight. Giles’s warm, human arms came around her then, and Spike’s strong cool leather left her. “You got her, then?”

    “Yes, yes,” Giles said absently, already forgetting Spike was still there. “We’re fine.”

    The heat from the enclosed house made Buffy feel sick again. “I think... I need the bathroom...” she slurred.

    Giles helped her up the stairs, and it wasn’t until Buffy had poured what seemed half her body weight into the toilet that she realized Spike must have left. She was too tired, and still too drunk, to think about that.   
  


***  
  


    Spike was sitting on the floor against his sarcophagus when Buffy came by the next evening. He had the air of waiting for her. Had she really been coming to see him that often? She realized she had. He was the only person she felt comfortable around anymore – which was the weirdest damn thing, and she really didn’t want to think about it. He grinned as she came in. “Come for another round?” he asked, indicating the bottle of whisky on the table by his television.

    “Nno, I don’t think so,” she said with no little sarcasm.

    He climbed to his feet. “Here to beat me senseless for my nefarious actions?”

    “Do you want me to?”

    He tilted his head with a slight flick of his eyebrow, but he didn’t answer.

    “I played a stupid game with you last night,” she said, getting right down to cases. “I know I did. And I want to know why you didn’t try to do... what I think you probably could have done with me.”

    “What? Set myself up for a good stake and eggs breakfast this morning?” he asked. “I’m no fool. You once told me I only had a chance with you if you were unconscious,” he said. “You weren’t quite there, yet.”

    “Right,” she said. “Because I shouldn’t suspect a vampire of behaving like a gentleman.”

    “Don’t insult me,” he said, but it was teasing. “I’m into blood. Most other bodily emissions are of limited interest.”

    Buffy felt embarrassed, and turned to hide her blush.

    The blush excited him, she could tell. He approached her like a sultry predator, his eyes narrowed seductively. “Slayer. If all I wanted was a bit of skirt, I could get it,” he said. His hand reached up and lifted her chin, his finger caressing her cheek. Her heart skipped a beat, and she was sure he heard it from the evil smile he slid into. “You’re no fun if you can’t fight me off.” With sudden strength, he grabbed the back of her neck. She had no idea if he meant to try and force her into a kiss or not. She didn’t give him the chance. Her hand knocked his arm away, and her other arm punched him hard in the face, knocking him a few good feet backwards.

    He checked his nose and lips for blood as he grinned at her. “There you are, love,” he said. “Can’t have you thinking me noble or anything.”

    “You’re not,” she said. “You infringed on me a bit.”

    His eyebrow twitched mischievously. “Fun, wasn’t it?”

    “It was disgusting.”

    “Ah, is that why your heart rate increased,” he said. She didn’t have a ready retort, but he wasn’t waiting for one. He went to his fridge instead, and tossed something at her. It was a beer. “Want something not quite so hard?” he asked.

    Buffy opened it and took a swallow. “Nah,” she said. “Willow doesn’t do much for me.”

    He chuckled and grabbed one for himself.

    “Even if you weren’t being a gentleman,” she said then, “I’m glad you didn’t....” She stopped. “Thanks.”

    He went serious. “Even if you were unconscious, you know,” he said, coming up toward her. “If I wanted a drunken doll, that’s easy. Not what I want from you. I want to feel your breath catch. I want your arms strong around me. I want to hear you moan.”

    “Stop being disgusting,” she said low.

    He grinned. “Ah. Your heart rate does increase when you’re disgusted, then.” He gently touched her hair. “You’re welcome, goldilocks.”    
  


 


End file.
